


a cynic's guide to regimes and gods

by SSAerial



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cosette is sugar spice and everything nice, Doppelganger, Enjolras doesn't like the prince or regimes, Eponine is fucking awesome, F/M, Gen, Grantaire is apparently a Disney prince, Grantaire switches places, Javert is the butler and not pleased, M/M, Modern Royalty, Prince and the Pauper AU, Sassy Grantaire, So many fucking references, he's broke and in college give him a break, no fucking surprise there, the Les Amis is watching the drama with popcorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SSAerial/pseuds/SSAerial
Summary: “Oh yeah, sure.” Grantaire’s ability to handle bullshit has just cracked the stratosphere and wasn’t coming back down any time soon. “Because treason and being the Pauper in the story is soflattering.Or a reenacting ofDave.At least that was entertaining.”(Or, where college student Grantaire switch places with an identical looking prince from a small monarchal kingdom. Enjolras does not like said prince (who is now Grantaire) on principle.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (listless) This is my vocab word for today. And the next. And the next. Just, I feel so attacked by plot bunnies. Seriously, stay the fuck away from me, I have so much fucking work. _Why goddamnit._ Anyway, I hope all of you enjoy this indulgent plot I’ve sprung up due to reading way too many Les Miserables fics, and tell me what you think!

Grantaire was Tired. The word deserved the honor of being capitalized in order to emphasize just how shitty his state of being was. Maybe he’ll tweet this later to earn commiseration from people just as fucking _done_ as he was. As a cynic however, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that anybody would give a damn.

First was the double shift he had to take at the café. And whatever fantasies people seem to have at the idea of working at such an establishment in fanfiction, _don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about._

In the past month, one guy quit after having a nervous breakdown in the kitchen when realizing he got five drinks wrong in the sea of orders he had to complete. The hats were uncomfortable as hell and kept falling into places that are censored when spoken of. Grantaire had to clean up both bathrooms twice today because sanitation was apparently a concept instead of a practice. He burnt his hand from hot water so many times they were tender and still red even after six hours. He constantly had to smile at impatient, rude customers when all he wanted to do was flip them the bird and say, “Screw you, I’m being paid minimum wage for your asshole company and those are five minutes I can’t take back you tip-less _bastard.”_

Right after that, his bag split open and his carefully arranged art supplies scattered on the sidewalk on his way home. He had to use his own overcoat to carry all the stuff like a jumbled sack, his worn down sweater doing nothing against the bristling November cold.

So when reaching his apartment and spotting literally the shadiest guy he’s _ever_ seen in a classic black and white suit firmly right in front of his door, it took everything in him to not chuck the coat and throw his hands up in the air yelling, _“Oh come on!”_ to the uncaring world.

_Ant, meet boot._

With all the maturity he didn’t feel, he marched up to the guy and succinctly said, “Look, I don’t know what aliens you’re hunting Mr. MIB, but could you move the fuck over?”

For reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom, the man’s brows shot to his bristly hair at the sight of him with what appears to be shock. Only for a moment though, because they ended up gravitating back to overshadowing his narrowed eyes.

“Speak the speech, I pray you.” Grantaire prodded again. He thought he nailed the flourish in his hand waving as he did.

The man didn’t look impressed. It reminded Grantaire of his tenth grade math teacher every time he had expertly spitballed the holes within the eights and zeros on the board. She had been Miss Trunchbull to his Matilda, if Matilda had been a nihilistic bastard who drank too much.

“You are the tenant of this room?” the man’s face defined disdain as his beady eyes flickered up and down Grantaire’s form, taking in the human disaster before him.

“If you’re here because of taxes, sorry to say, I’m a broke college student.” Grantaire deadpanned.

Mr. Suit’s eye twitched sporadically. One point for Grantaire.

Sue him. He’s a spiteful ball of existence.

“My name is Javert, and I am here on behalf of the Kingdom of Laleniel.”

He said all this with a completely straight face that for a moment, Grantaire thought he was reading off an invisible script. Then the words sunk in and all he could say was:

“Bullshit.”

Thirty minutes later, it’s apparently _not_ bullshit and Javert ended up sitting in his crappy living room that smelled like three weeks laundry – to be fair, he did do the laundry three days ago but the smell just decided to stick around a little longer this time – and old eggs – which is totally 100% his fault.

“Let me get this straight.” Grantaire just finished waterfalling his water bottle cause he didn’t want to wash the dishes any time soon, and he read on a website recently that as long as you didn’t have your mouth touching the bottle, it was indefinitely reusable. Don’t spread germs! “You want me to take the place of your, I can’t believe I’m saying this, prince in a far, faraway kingdom _Laneniel_. Which, by the way, sounds like a made up name from a fantasy RPG game. Because he, and I repeat, ran away in an attempt to copy the plot-driving point in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen? _Are you kidding me?”_

“No.” Javert grunted, looking terribly awkward on Grantaire’s raggedy couch. Grantaire slammed his thankfully closed water bottle on the floor and leaned forward, sitting on the opposite chair.

“Look, even if I do believe you – _which I don’t_ by the way – I don’t get why you can’t just announce that your wonderful prince fucked up. Drama like this happens all the damn time.” Grantaire tried to reason in this unreasonable situation.

“The prince is scheduled to meet his fiancé in a week that can’t be cancelled. Considering the fact that said neighboring kingdom-”

“There are more of you?” Grantaire couldn’t help but blurt out. Javert steadily ignored him.

“-has been in lifelong conflict with Laneniel for years, this is our one chance to make peace.” Javert scowled fiercely. “Though to be tied with that thieving king is something I do not completely agree with.”

“What’s wrong with the king?” Grantaire had to ask despite himself. One, because he was a curious cat with zero lives and seeing the robot man capable of feeling anything was surprising. Second, _anything_ was better than imagining himself running a goddamn kingdom. If it weren’t for the fact he’s a recovering alcoholic, he would be drinking his body weight fill right now.

Javert twitched, eyes darting away intriguingly. “He stole a loaf of bread for a child when visiting secretly and without permission, and proceeded to get away with such crime from the late queen. It seemed to have... _amused_ her.”

Grantaire stared at him.

“You,” Grantaire said slowly, “have issues.”

“We’re getting off topic.” Javert snapped. “It will take time to find him that we unfortunately don’t have. And if it gets out that the prince ran away from the engagement, the whole treaty would collapse. We have found your records and pictures to fit his exterior profile almost exactly to a degree that is fairly alarming to be frank, and are willing to pay you for your services.”

Grantaire’s attention reluctantly perked up. Nobody gets to judge him, he was a _broke college student_ damn it. He managed to stamp down on the interest quickly though. For once, his own cynicism was working for him in keeping a cool head.

“First of all, the fact you stalked me beforehand has me inclined to not trust you. And I’m not sorry to say, since I’ve literally been telling you this entire time, _I don’t fucking believe a damn word out of your robotic mouth.”_

Javert blandly took out an iPhone that looked older than Gavroche, and started tapping away for a full ten seconds. He handed it to Grantaire all in a rather clipt fashion.

Grantaire looked at the screen and felt his thick brows scrunch up like wriggling, picturesque caterpillars in disbelief. Eponine always had a way with metaphors.

It was _him_. He looked _sober_ and his hair was tightly braided back to the point it looked actually painful. He was wearing high collared clothes that would’ve physically killed Grantaire from sheer ticklishness. He looked like a smug fucking bastard and was grinning charmingly at the camera, fucking _winking_.

Grantaire vowed right then and there that Eponine would never see this particular picture. He fervently hoped it wasn’t a popular one. He looked like a swarmy politician and it made him sick just looking at it.

“Well he looks like a piece of work.” It was the nicest thing Grantaire could come up with. Suddenly, he was feeling a lot more sympathetic for the tired, irritated looking man sitting in his crappy apartment. Without really thinking about it, he offered up the water bottle to the man by the bottle’s neck, the same way he would hand over a bottle of beer.

Seeing the man’s dubious look, he smirked and wagged the offending object in his face. “I didn’t touch it with my mouth, prick. The internet says its unhygienic. Oh look!” he faux brightened. “I actually know something! Amazing!”

In an attempt to shut him up more than actually being grateful, Javert snatched the water and downed it as if committing suicide via drowning.

“Okay dude.” Grantaire spoke again after the man inhumanely gulped the entire beverage only a few times in one go. “Seeing how I’ve never tried out for theater and I’ve never looked that clean in my life, fine. I get it. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m in my first semester right now and no matter how much of a deprived vagrant I look, I actually do go to my classes.”

“We can notify your teachers into letting you take the rest of your classes online. It can be arranged that the rest of your work would be sent to them through email, and they can send you the lectures. Tests can shift into papers, and presentations can be solved through sent powerpoints and skype. Seeing how the prince does the same and takes online classes and was homeschooled, it would not look odd to anyone if you do the same. And if all that is too troublesome, you can withdraw from your classes and we’ll personally pay for the expenses. Further payment for your full-time services is a given and can be arranged right here, right now.”

Grantaire let out a whistle, impressed despite himself. It was a very concrete solution and Grantaire could feel the trickle of temptation start to dig him by the claws. The seriousness of the situation was starting to dawn on him, and he felt himself tense from the realization.

“You really are desperate to want a fuck-up like me on your throne.” He said self-depreciatively.

Javert gave him a long, unreadable look. They both knew he didn’t need to say a word.

Grantaire blew out a breath and held up one splayed hand, starting to count down.

“Two people's worth of entire college education, two years worth of money to pay rent, a new bag and art supplies,” Grantaire listed off rapidly. He briefly hesitated before continuing, uncertain whether the man would allow the next one. “And enough money to provide for a kid till he goes to college.”

Javert looked mightily displeased.

“Is it yours?” he said, a grimace blooming over his severe features.

“What? _No.”_ Grantaire felt an ugly sneer start to riddle his already misshapen face. He wondered if it was as vile as that fake smile that was plastered on his doppelganger’s face, and hoped viciously it wasn’t. Grantaire was probably worse and for once, he was completely fine with that. Anything to not look like a lying, snobbish _idiot_. “And it doesn’t fucking matter if he is or isn’t. You don’t get to fucking judge while asking me to impersonate a whiny prince who ran away cause he doesn’t give a flying fuck.”

“Take care how you speak.” Javert rumbled out, sharp and biting. “He is royalty and deserves respect.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Grantaire’s ability to handle bullshit has just cracked the stratosphere and wasn’t coming back down any time soon. “Because treason and being the Pauper in the story is _so flattering_. Or a reenacting of _Dave_. At least that was entertaining.”

The guy looked ready to blow a gasket, so Grantaire did the next most illogical thing possible and threw his hand in between them. The man may be a bastard, but he was a desperate one. And as much as Grantaire liked to play off that he wasn’t desperate for some cash, this was his chance to finally find a way to pay back Eponine for yanking him back to sobriety and piecing his life back together again. It was like the gods were plonking an answer right in front of him and he’d have to be concussed and amoral as hell to not take this golden chance.

Besides, the daydream of striding up to his boss and cheerfully telling him to go to hell while throwing an apron to his face was a reality he really, really wanted to live in.

So with angelic grace, he said, “Do we have a deal or not, asshole?”

With mutinous rage, Javert shook his hand with bone-breaking intensity.

Lovely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, please comment and kudos on the way out. And check out my tumblr page aerialflight.tumblr.com, hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This is so much fun._ Grantaire’s voice is like all my inner-sass bursting out and basically making fun of every-fucking-thing. It’s therapeutic and I’m gleeful in taking advantage of this opportunity to let loose. Eponine is lovely and Grantaire is a human mess, and I am loving this. Also, okay, this plot has spiraled. I am whether going to hate myself or love myself for doing this. Like always, the plot literally got away from me, gah. Hope you enjoy as much as I enjoy writing this!

Predictably, Eponine couldn’t stop laughing for nearly fifteen minutes straight when he explained.

He forgave her since she _did_ barge into the apartment in record speed when he frantically called her once the full implications of his own reckless actions slugged him in the face like a rendition of Babe Ruth hitting a home run. The angry concern that set her dark eyes aflame made her look like a wild, ragged wolf ready to defend her pack. Grantaire shouldn’t have found it so endearing, but he did.

It said a lot what his masochistic tendencies were like to love dangerous things so much.

Once it was confirmed that no, he didn’t fall off the wagon and yes, he was completely fine and he wasn’t going to catch a cold for walking in the freezing weather for half an hour, give him a _break_ , he told her the whole bizarre affair. He patiently waited for her to get off the floor and stop wheezing like a woman on her death bed.

“Hold the fuck up,” she managed to stifle another burst of laughter and cleared her throat, mouth twitching in amusement. “You have a douchebag stunt double that you never knew about who’s apparently a Disney prince. With a castle, a whole country, fluffy life and pillows, the whole shebang.”

“Pretty much.” Grantaire grumbled, picking at the old couch stitches that have come loose over the years.

 _“Oh my fucking god.”_ The raven girl guffawed, nearly gleeful. Her dark eyes were practically twinkling with mirth. “How does it feel to be Grantaire the married man?”

“Fuck you. And it’s, “How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?”, don’t _paraphrase_. And of all the lines you remember from Shakespeare, you chose something that lame?” he wagged a finger at her in mock admonishment. “For shame. And for the record, it’s not real. None of this is real. I’m just a Polly Pocket standing in place until the real Ken marries Barbie.”

Eponine snorted.

“Paraphrase, schmaraphrase. I’m not a bookworm like you mister Classics and Art major, so give me some slack. I’m sticking to math where everything makes sense unlike your life.”

Grantaire groaned, flopping an arm dramatically over his eyes. He slumped sideways so his whole body would lay down on the couch.

“Fuck, I’m not getting into that debate, okay? It’s been a weird day.” Grantaire muttered.

Eponine snickered and patted his free arm while still sitting on the carpeted floor.

“Only you, Grantaire.”

“Yeah yeah.” Grantaire waved a hand in the air dismissively without looking at her. “We’ve already established that my life is a sitcom where I always get the short end of the stick. The comic character who never gets the girl, or guy, or anyone. This is a fact of the universe, _we get it.”_

“Hey.” Her voice immediately went sharp, fierce and protective. He felt himself melt a little at the tone. “You’re my best friend, you don’t get to say that. You’re a good person and anyone who says otherwise can go to hell and stay on the rack.”

“Keep talking like that and Gavroche is gonna pick it up. Can’t have such a colorful tongue at the age of nine, think of the other poor third graders.” Grantaire warned, a wry smile reluctantly flashing across his crooked face. Eponine desperately wished for a moment that she really _could_ paint or recite poetry like Grantaire at the top of her head. Maybe he would look at himself differently if she spoke his language.

Instead, she sighed and crawled onto the couch, Grantaire graciously sitting up a little more as she rested her head on his thighs as she laid down. With inexplicable trust that came from years of friendship, she let Grantaire start to braid her hair. The soothing, familiar motions seemed to settle both of them as they pondered over troubling thoughts.

“What’s gonna happen with your classes?” she asked first. Grantaire nearly smiled at her mom-tone.

“I’m playing hooky and getting completely reimbursed too. And rent isn’t gonna be a problem anymore. It’ll give me enough time to find a better job.” He cocked his head, thoughtful. “Maybe I can work at a bar. Learn a few tricks to impress the drunken mass. You know, like those youtube videos where they light drinks on fire. Always wanted to learn how to do that.”

“Knowing you, the whole place would go up in flames.” Eponine pointed out. Grantaire shrugged lopsidedly.

“Eh, I’m good with my hands.” A sly smirk curled up the end of his mouth. “Or are you forgetting poker nights?”

She languidly flipped him the bird. He laughed merrily, the sound scratchy and genuine.

“So when are you leaving?” she said quietly, turning to melancholy. The hand that previously expressed vulgarity became affectionate as she gently brushed a flaying curl from his face. Bright blue eyes briefly eyed her in a quicksilver moment, always darting around as if paranoid of barbing words and blows. The implications squeezed her chest and made her want to beat down every person who’s ever stamped Grantaire as nothing.

She knew that without Grantaire, without each other, their fates would’ve been far worse off. Grantaire dragged her and Gavroche out of the family business back in high school, fussing over her and letting her stay at his parents’ house – it never felt like home to him – whenever they weren’t there (which was often, but that was probably for the best). And she had gathered up all the alcohol in the house and poured it down the drain, defiant yet terrified he would leave her once she did.

They had screamed themselves hoarse once he had found out. But Grantaire, who was too damn forgiving for his own good, relented with bone-tired resignation to stop drinking. And no matter how much Grantaire protested or didn’t believe it, they definitely wouldn’t have graduated high school if he hadn’t pulled through for both of them.

Late night studying at libraries until the librarians knew them by name. Making up alphabet songs on a ridiculously tiny, plastic guitar for Gavroche, mixing English and French as he did. Slipping in countless water bottles and granola bars in her backpack, ‘just in case.’ Snarking at teachers so they’d be too irritated to notice her absences when she had to work an extra shift at the supermarket.

_(“What?” Eighteen-year-old Grantaire would shrug with nonchalance, black humor dyeing his voice. “At least everyone picking on me would be something useful for once.)_

And when they graduated, they got the hell out of dodge, leaving everything they knew behind.

College life, taking care of Gavroche while sharing an apartment, was pretty much a day-by-day routine. Life kept going, and while it definitely wasn’t the sparkly envisioned escape they both thought it would be, it could’ve been _a lot_ worse. They were both very aware of that.

“Tomorrow.” He grimaced at a particularly stubborn knot. “I don’t own many things anyway, and you know the landlady’s nice enough to not snoop around. She’s more of a Mary Poppins than a Miss Hannigan.”

Eponine snorted. “You and your Musical references.”

“Hey.” Grantaire straightened up, mock outrage blossoming like an overgrown sunflower. Eponine had to stifle a smirk at the mental comparison that shouldn’t fit, but did. “Are you insinuating the dramatic arts of escapism and fantasy as something to be laughed at? That ridiculous premises shouldn’t be enjoyed due to the sheer absurdity of it? You provincial _fiend.”_

“Yup.” Eponine’s tone was dry as a desert. “You’re gonna fit right in with those posh bastards.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment as if bracing himself for impact before carefully saying, “Would you accept full financial support for Gavroche and your college debts from a posh bastard like me then?”

Eponine nearly collided with Grantaire’s cranium as she bolted up, braid half-finished and already breaking apart. She stared at him, her eyes wide.

_“What?”_

Grantaire closed his eyes.

“I told him I wouldn’t take the job unless they provided for Gavroche until he goes to college, and for you.” The way he cautiously opened one eye to watch her reaction was almost comical in how wary he was of the smaller girl’s wrath. Taking what she perceived as charity was always a precarious balance that Grantaire tried his best in not overstepping. “You, uh, you okay with that?”

Without a word, she hugged the living daylights out of Grantaire and whispered in his ear. “If you ever do it again, _I’ll snap your spine in half.”_

Ah, friendship.

“Noted.”

She didn’t reject the offer, and that was enough to know how she felt on the matter.

* * *

 

His experience in arriving in another country can only be described in two words: _time differences._

The wind was cool, the weather was actually warm in the middle of November – what the everloving _shit_ – and he has taken to wearing sunglasses to not resort to hissing at the sun that was unabashedly shining down at him. Helios was not kind to him today.

Javert, in a show of good grace that Grantaire hadn’t thought he was capable of, let him drink two cups of iced coffee on the _private jet holy crap._

Again, it would be a lot more awe-inspiring if Grantaire wasn’t ready to commit homicide and get arrested in a foreign country.

Also, it was apparently habit for the prince to wear sunglasses most of the times anyway, according to Javert. It even earned an odd stare from the man as if he was internally double-taking when looking in Grantaire’s direction.

His opinion on said prince was only spiraling more and more downward as pieces of information started to form an eye-cringing menagerie. If he wasn’t such a pessimist who didn’t believe marriage can be sustained only on love, he would weep for the poor princess who had to marry such a giant dick.

A black limo – the kind you see in prom movies or TV shows – pulled up and they got in. He had to desperately not look at the insanely expensive alcoholic beverages that were stored in easy use. The back of his neck prickled and sweat gathered at the palms just knowing that oblivion was so close by. Javert seemed to notice but thankfully didn’t comment. Instead, he started to give a very swift rundown on, _‘The Rules.’_

“A few of your tutors who are aware of the circumstances will be educating you some basic etiquette that won’t make you look like a total barbarian-”

“Wow.” Grantaire said wryly. “Tell me what you really think.”

“-and the family tree and history. It’s imperative that nobody suspects anything, and you must be on your best behavior to not insult anyone.”

“I think that’s gonna be pretty easy seeing how I can’t really top ‘spoiled rich boy.’ Who can beat a classic?”

Javert glared at him. Grantaire shot him a grin that screamed taunting.

They reached the entrance to the so-called kingdom with further barbs thrown and more instructions pointedly said. Grantaire can say with complete honesty that Javert was the most straight-laced brick wall he’s ever met. It was both annoying and entertaining to try and topple.

The butler didn’t appreciate the efforts.

Javert though had the last laugh when Grantaire finally got a good look at the place and promptly dropped his jaw at the astounding sight.

From the distance, there was an _honest to god castle_. It was something out of a fairy tale dream little kids draw in kindergarten class. White towering walls with a glow to it that reminded Grantaire of a smaller version of Gondor in its glory days, all shining shimmering splendid. And surrounding it were houses and buildings that felt a little like Paris in all its crowded quaintness. It’s such an unexpected juxtaposition that the onslaught of images had Grantaire staring fixatedly out of the car window.

Without once looking away, he got his phone out and started to rapidly take as many photos as he could. It was a bit blurry and definitely didn’t capture how striking the moment was, but it would do for now until he could sketch it out. His hands were practically itching to start. He hasn’t been this motivated in a long time, and he wasn’t even in the palace yet.

Well, if everything went to hell, at least the trip instigated more creative inspiration from him.

Glancing to the side, he nearly flushed to the roots of his hair when he caught Javert staring at him.

“What?” he couldn’t help but snap. The guy was looking at him as if he was Mark Watney finding viable proof there were life-forms on Mars.

The man blinked twice methodically before immediately frowning.

“You’re smiling.” He observed.

Grantaire stared blankly back at him.

“Uh, yeah.” Grantaire timed his voice slowly. “That’s what people do when they’re happy. You know, that warm fluttering feeling in your stomach at Christmas time when Santa bothers giving you a gift? Have you been good this year, inspector of human interactions?”

“Don’t smile.” The man said nonsensically.

_“What.”_

“In all my years of watching over the prince, he has never smiled that way before. That will be another rule you mustn’t break if you don’t want to break your cover.”

What the actual _fuck?_

“Are you seriously telling me to not be happy? Wow,” Grantaire snorted. “no wonder my clone made a break for it, Jesus.”

Javert made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat, the sound a rumbling thunderstorm.

“I am simply advising that in order to be in character, do not act out of what the prince would do. He is,” he hesitated, obviously not wanting to discriminate the prince badly in any way. “not a sincere person. He does not wear his emotions on an open sleeve and is very fickle when it comes to interests or people.”

“You’re only giving me reasons why I should really not like this guy.” Grantaire said flatly.

“It is not your job to like him.” Javert snapped and oh, oh my. That was a well of information opened up right there. And though Grantaire was an idiot with a lack of self-preservation skills, he wisely decided to stay silent. This was way above his pay-grade and he did not want to get involved with whatever personal beef the butler had with his charge. It just wasn’t worth the trouble.

After silently passing by people on the sidewalks and buildings full of history Grantaire couldn’t derive, they finally reached the castle that looked even more majestic up close. He suddenly felt very small and insignificant in front of it, doubts starting to sprout from the sight of something far beyond him.

What the hell was he _doing?_ How the hell was he going to pull this off?

He didn’t have more time to quietly panic as a nameless worker took his bags while Javert curtly told him to follow him to the King’s office.

It’s official. He was literally stepping into an 19th century Victorian novel.

Grantaire looked around, taking in the immaculate floors and surprisingly modern design that was spread all over the place. Seeing a flat screen television hung on the wall of an incredibly old looking room as he passed by was beyond disconcerting. Even more so when spotting an honest to god golden chandelier that Eponine’s parents would’ve tried to stupidly steal in a heartbeat.

They reached the largest, imposing doors in probably the whole place. Javert knocked imperiously on it.

“Come in.” the voice was muffled, yet still incredibly ominous. Grantaire gulped.

The doors opened inwardly with a loud inhale and the two strived in to meet a very serious looking man in a somber black suit. He was smaller than Grantaire imagined, that was for sure.

The king and vagabond student inspected each other, both wondering whether their own features was on the other. It was the weirdest parent-meeting thing Grantaire has ever had the misfortune of experiencing.

“So you are my son’s replacement.” The man’s voice was extremely flat, a continuous note that hummed and existed. Grantaire could see how intimidating it could be for other people. The tactic, however, was backfiring since being contradictory and saying ‘fuck it’ to everything was Grantaire’s special skillset.

“Yup. And you’re the king of Laneniel.” He managed to say straight-faced yet ironic. He was good at multi-tasking.

If the man caught the backhanded comment, he ignored it.

“The princess is arriving in six days. You will be taught all that is necessary in convincing King Valjean in tying the kingdoms together in matrimony. Your payment has been set in a different bank account, completely yours once the week is up. Are we still in agreement to this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” Grantaire quipped out. He’s generally an asshole, in case anyone forgets.

The king seemed to get that message clearly too cause the disapproving frown he shoots in Grantaire’s direction was a familiar one. He was polite enough about it though and jerked his head to Javert.

“The house butler will direct you to your room.” And then he stopped talking. No, _“I hope you enjoy your stay.”_ No, _"Thank you for crossing entire countries to impersonate my runaway son who happens to be the most asshole prince on the planet.”_

He took it back. The king was a bastard.

So Grantaire gave a slight nod and impulsively gave a sloppy salute in his direction before walking away. He grinned when he spotted Javert’s wide-eyed look that was equivalent to being deeply scandalized.

 _This might not turn out so bad._ He thought fleetingly and tried not to freeze at his own rare, stupid optimism.

Shit. Famous last words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, please comment on the way out. And check out my tumblr page aerialflight.tumblr.com, hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this fic is officially my favorite thing to write right now, cause Grantaire’s voice gives me life. I literally can’t stop writing this and it’s probably gonna bite me in the ass for avoiding writing my final essays. Fuck it though, cause it’s been a while since I’ve been this inspired. I hope you enjoy and please leave kudos and comments!
> 
> Also, I’ve been listening to 8tracks for Grantaire, and there’s this song that really got me going, and it’s so much like Grantaire that I love it, haha! It’s Frank Turner - Love Ire & Song. Go ahead and listen, it’s great! :D

Grantaire was surprised to say he was bored.

Considering his lifestyle though, he could see why. He was usually always on the move, whether from classes or other responsibilities that weighed his shoulders, turning him into a hunched over version of Atlas. That constant pressure to be an adult and not screw up his already downtrodden life was absent, and it was leaving him off-balanced.

The lessons that the teachers taught him were simple to remember, seeing how he was used to learning histories and blood lines of Greek and Roman emperors and conquerors. It was irritating when the tutors always seemed surprised by how easily he picked it up.

It wasn’t anything special, or especially hard after all. He already knew he looked the part for a clown, _geez_. No need to rub it in.

Calling Eponine was becoming his one bright spot during the day, both mocking the old-fashioned décor once Grantaire took pictures of the place and sent them. He’d weave stories for Gavroche, telling him that particular lamp in the giant corridor was a gift from pirates who stole it from the British, sort of a ‘screw those bastards we hate them too’ present. Pirates and the monarchy banding together in their mutual hate of the British.

Messing with the history books in major ways was a perverse kind of hilarity to Grantaire, and he took advantage of that despite his absolute lack of knowledge on the history of pirates. It took some creative license, but it was worth it. It made the kid laugh.

Even drawing was getting tiresome. He didn’t dare ask for any kind of art supplies. It felt too much like he was indulging himself when he really didn’t want to make it inconvenient for anyone. The servants – what was this, the 1700’s? – never tried to talk to him and actively seemed to avoid him. Seeing how nobody except the king, Javert, and a few handpicked tutors only knew his circumstances, this was somehow the prince’s fault. Again.

The lonely, empty corridors that at first seemed untouchably beautiful despite his sarcastic remarks remained so. As a few days went by though, it almost looked haunted, so empty and hollow that it pulled at Grantaire’s skin uneasily.

So could one blame him for sloppily sitting in a plushy armchair, uselessly trying to sketch an ornate vase and tossing the notebook away saying, ‘fuck it’ and darting around trying to find an exit out of the pretty cage he’s been going stir-crazy for days in?

No, no they couldn’t.

If Eponine was here, she’d probably facepalm at his childish need to not abide by the rules even for a measly week.

He finally found a backdoor that was oddly a huge hole in security that Javert the hell hound seemed to have overlooked. A couple of the cooks saw him, one of them nearly dropping the plate she was holding when she did. Whether from the absence of designer clothes he had been forced to wear that had itched in places Grantaire didn’t want to explore, or the raunchy wink he shot her way while putting a finger to his lips in a ‘shush!’ signal, he wasn't sure.

She was so stunned that she let him sneak by and leave, hand tugging down his black beanie to stuff down his noticeable wild curls. With the army green hoodie and sagging jeans he brought from home, he looked like any average bloke. Anonymity was something he was far more comfortable with.

He had to bolt across the back garden, nearly tripping a couple times in an attempt to not step over any flowers, and scramble behind a tree when he saw Javert stalk by, a wolf among fragile-boned mortals. The one time Grantaire called him Romulus had earned him a sneer so daggering that Grantaire briefly wondered if he was a werewolf, or a grumpy cousin of Remus Lupin. You never know with those pure-blood incestuous family trees.

Just, _ew_. No wonder the guy was offended.

Once Javert passed by, Grantaire went to the metal gates and nearly cursed when he saw it was locked. Out of no real expectation, Grantaire searched his hoodie’s pockets and jeans. A crumpled piece of drawing, a pack of gum, and a pencil later, he made a triumphal noise when finding one of Eponine’s cheap hairpins in his back jean’s pockets.

Ah, the benefits of having a female best friend who was a former thief.

With a little effort and careful handling he learnt from the best, the lock clicked open and the gate swung outward. Fist pumping elatedly for a moment, he made for his escape with a giant, accomplished grin.

Going around the entire castle took some effort and a lot of sliding down hills, but he managed to find a pathway that led to the quant town that should be at least a little more interesting than Beauty & the Beast’s castle post-curse.

Hunching his shoulders, he glanced around and observed the going ons of the town. It was like another world entirely, so much more quiet yet bustling in how much smaller the population was here. Small people with an antiquated system running them, their lives depending heavily on whoever was in charge. It’s funny, in a not so funny way where he knew everything could go to hell the moment someone worse was in charge.

The prince, Grantaire thought as he wandered, may ruin the appeal of this peaceful place. How a troublemaking dunderhead came from such a location with little trouble was downright weird to Grantaire, but the greed of human nature always proved to be worse than Grantaire previously thought, making his opinion go even lower. But then, of course, someone would rise to face him, battle him off like Robin Hood and save the day. It was so damn fairy tale like that Grantaire couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the ridiculousness of it all. Walking down the yellow brick road indeed.

He wondered if there was a tavern. Do they call it tavern here? Fuck if he knew.

Mentally shrugging, he just decided to go for it and whimsically started to try and find the bar. He was a masochist for searching out the very thing he should avoid, but he was curious damn it. Making jokes about getting a job at a bar with Eponine should prove that. Zero lives cat, remember?

Much to his delight, there _was_ a tavern. A cramped establishment that looked so out of place in between the shoes store and candle store. Pluto bumping itself between Uranus and Neptune like the rude little shit it was.

God, he really has to stop with the metaphors. Eponine was rubbing off of him.

Shaking his head, he walked in.

First thing that hit him was the smell. People were smoking everywhere, the smoke slinking around and invading people’s personal spaces. Long used to it though, Grantaire treaded in and tried to avoid the curious looks thrown his way. He sat on one of the stools, arms folded on the counter as he leaned in to inspect the drink menu up above that was written in chalk. There was something charming about this place, old-fashioned yet warm.

The bartender swooped in and shot him a grin that folded skin. With tied back flame hair and pale skin, the constellation of freckles looked almost hidden under the many scratches and bruises that were scattered across the man’s face. It did nothing to dampen the guy’s jovial mood, which was impressive.

Idly, Grantaire wondered if it hurt to smile with so my injuries on his face. Maybe he had Hercules’s pain tolerance, he certainly looked the part.

“What can I get you skaterboy?” he asked cheerfully. It destroyed the intimidating image he presented to the world.

Grantaire liked him instantly just for existing to destroy people’s expectations.

“Cola if you have it.” The guy quirked up an eyebrow and Grantaire felt the urge to explain. “I don’t drink. At least, I’m trying not to.”

“Yet you walked into a bar.” There wasn’t any judgement in the guy’s voice, only well-intentioned humor.

Grantaire smirked and shrugged. “It’ll go against my very nature if I don’t. You know, Cookie Monster without the cookies. Vampires eating baby rabbits. Ron Swanson going vegan. Me not drinking is still a novelty to people who know me, so I try not to just to mess with them.”

It was a lie of course, but the guy burst into such boisterous laughter that Grantaire couldn’t help but join in.

“One cola coming up then. Try not to get drunk lightweight.” He teased.

Grantaire clenched his chest in mock offense.

“Dude, if I wasn’t aiming for acting like a responsible adult, I’d take that challenge. I could drink you under the table, Strawberry Shortcake.”

“Keep dreaming, Shaggy.”

Oh, it was _on_.

For the rest of the time, when the bartender wasn’t busy with other customers that is, they threw different nicknames at each other with such ease that it was startling. It took a lot more for Grantaire to usually be comfortable with people, Eponine being the exception with how desperately isolated the two had been to bring them together.

There was something so self-assured about the man, brash yet respective of privacy that made Grantaire feel right at home. He supposed it took a certain skill to handle loud customers or troublemakers, the muscles on the guy definitely able to handle whatever fights that could break out.

“So where are you from?” the guy asked. Grantaire still didn’t get to ask his name, and seeing how it was such a small town, the nametag wasn’t needed much with everyone knowing everyone. “Never seen you around here before.”

“Uh,” Grantaire scratched the back of his head and decided screw it, it wasn’t like the guy could find anything on him, and from the looks of it, nobody recognized him as the prince. Whether it meant Grantaire just wasn’t impressive enough or assholish enough to be mistaken as royalty was something he didn’t really want to think about. “Paris, actually.”

“Really?” the large man’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Meanwhile, Grantaire was scrambling to build a cover story in his mind. “What the hell is a guy like you doing in a shitty dump like this?”

“Seriously? A pick up line? _Lame_.” The bartender snickered as Grantaire mentally lined up words into something that made sense. “Well, I left school for a bit. Needed a break. And, uh, someone offered me something I couldn’t refuse here, so I decided to come.”

“What could lure in a scrappy guy like you? That’s a compliment.” The guy added, making Grantaire blink at the semi-praise or whatever it was.

“Tutoring?” Cause why the hell not, he’s just going with the flow now. Besides, it was in a very abstract way kind of true. “I’m, well, being tutored. Not really good at anything other than art.” He said, honesty making his throat scrape against self-deprecation. The bartender didn’t seem to like that, a frown marring his face unnaturally for the first time.

“Then you must be an amazing artist.” He said firmly, cutting down any future arguments with stronghold confidence Grantaire didn’t know how he earned. He certainly didn’t deserve it.

“Right.” He said awkwardly, not believing it at all. “Moving on, I actually never caught your name? Is it secretly Willy and are we standing over a hellmouth?”

An amused grin brightened up the man’s face, good countenance once again restored. “Bahorel actually. What about you, mysterious stranger coming from out of town?”

“Oh my god.” Grantaire groaned and half-heartedly slumped his head on the counter. “I’m a walking cliché.” Eponine was gonna laugh herself sick when he tells her.

It didn’t help that Bahorel was totally sniggering at his unfortunate label.

“Grantaire.” He raised his head and gave a dry smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.” The guy grinned, sounding completely genuine. Grantaire had to duck his head to hide his bewilderment and embarrassment that the man meant what he said.

Rare, weirder things have happened before, he tried to convince himself.

He froze though when he looked up and saw the clock on the wall, seeing that nearly three hours passed since he escaped.

“Shit.” He swore, standing up abruptly under Bahorel’s concerned gaze. Shooting him an apologetic look, Grantaire said, “I have to get back. I can’t believe how much time flew past me.”

“That’s what happens when you get into good conversation.” Bahorel said, smiling and appeased.

“Yeah,” Grantaire huffed out a laugh. “I actually didn’t expect that.”

He couldn’t hide the pleasant surprise in his voice even if he tried. It’s been a really long time since he just talked to someone without anyone expecting anything from him. It was an addicting and refreshing experience.

And then a thought struck him and left him panicking again.

“Crap,” he looked up guiltily, heart already sinking at the thought of the amiable man thinking badly of him. “I actually didn’t bring any money with me.”

To his mounting disbelief though, the man merely waved him off with a kind smile.

“It’s fine, on the house.”

Grantaire stared at him, pessimism hissing at him that Bahorel was trying to use him and wasn’t as good and trusting as he appeared. Grantaire, for once, told that voice to shut up because he really wanted to believe for once that someone he genuinely liked actually liked him back.

Still, not paying didn’t sit well with Grantaire at all.

Frantically trying to find a solution, inspiration struck him and he scrambled to get the rumpled paper out of his hoodie’s pocket while Bahorel curiously watched on. He tried to flatten it out as best as he could on the table before handing it over to Bahorel, hand sweating from nervousness. He never shared his work to anyone other than those in his class and Eponine before, and he knew it didn’t look as good as he would’ve liked.

It was a drawing of Gavroche skipping in the rain puddles, water flying everywhere as he tried to copy Gene Kelly’s Singin’ in the Rain dance. They were nearly kicked out of the park with how much Gavroche splashed water on other people. All three of them had to make a run for it before the police came, shrieking with laughter as they did.

Of course, like idiots, they were sick for days and Grantaire had to be the one to make chicken noodle soup since Eponine was in worse shape than he was. Afterwards, he tried over and over again to capture that moment and ended up having Gavroche be a shadowed figure with only his side shown, impish and grinning like a loon. It made him look more like a mischievous elf than a human being. And while it did suit the little brat’s nature, he couldn’t do it justice and shelfed the idea away.

He actually had completely forgotten about it until now, old drawings habitually pocketed in the most random places. Eponine usually had to rummage through his clothes on laundry days just in case. She was always weirdly defensive about it, claiming he shouldn’t throw away any of his art even though they were trash. He just let her do what she pleased and stopped protesting after a while.

And now he was showing it to Bahorel, which was freaking him out big time.

“Well, you were under the opinion that I’m good, and now that you see it isn’t, you should feel honored that I’m imparting this secret of how terrible I actually am. Um, it’s all I have at the moment anyway, and it’s not finished or anything, and you could hold it as hostage to tell other people how bad I am until I pay you properly-” Grantaire rambled, hands gesturing agitatedly.

Bahorel inspected the paper quietly as he did before looking up and grinning with such enthusiasm that it left Grantaire stunned and silent.

“Are you kidding me? This is amazing! You drew this?” he exclaimed, eyes blazing intensely as his hair. Grantaire swallowed hard, glancing away. He desperately wished he could take off his hat so he could run his hand through his hair.

“Uh, yes? And it’s not that good, really.” Grantaire mumbled, flushing hotly. “I drew that a while back and it’s not my best work, really.”

“You’re even better than this?” Bahorel sounded awed. Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time he blushed this much and frantic denials left his tongue rapidly.

“No! That’s not what I meant. At all.” He said quickly. “I’m really not that good, seriously. You should see what other people do in Paris, it’s crazy. I’m mediocre at best.”

“Dude.” Bahorel said gravely. “If this is mediocre, I’ll eat my Velcro shoes.”

A shaky laugh blew out of Grantaire’s mouth and Bahorel grinned at him encouragingly. How someone can be so patient with how much of a human mess Grantaire is was beyond his understanding.

“Besides,” Bahorel continued in a casual tone. “I’d actually really like to see you prove me wrong. You could visit me off-hours and pay me with a better work than this than. Hell, I could show you the sights if you like? With what limited things there are to look at here anyway.”

“Really?” Grantaire blurted out, surprised by the offer.

“Hell yeah! You could meet some of my friends too! They run a student activist club thing and they’re all around your age too I think. You’d like them.”

Grantaire automatically snorted, already skeptical. He couldn’t help it. Activists were urban myths and aliens to Grantaire who was too busy trying to live his life to think anything beyond caring about Eponine and Gavroche.

“I thought this place was pretty small? Is there a school nearby here?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“There’s a college close by actually, but it’s private and richly funded. It’s pretty nice, but not many can get in there even with its good reputation. It’s, well, pretty elitist. Enjolras certainly complains about how limited it is. He’s pretty drastic about how much he hates the monarchy.”

“He hates the monarchy.” Grantaire repeated blankly. “Seriously?”

Bahorel chuckled. “Yeah. He’s, well, you have to see him to believe it.”

“Uh huh.” Grantaire sounded out doubtfully. Shaking his head, he started to head for the door. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great!” Bahorel beamed like the sun. It almost hurt to look at him. “It’s at the Les Amis café at eight on Thursdays. Don’t be late!”

“Alright Molly Ringwald. It’s a maybe, remember that.” Grantaire warned before finally darting out and hoping nobody noticed he was gone. He wouldn’t be going anywhere anyway if he got caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, please comment on the way out. And check out my tumblr page aerialflight.tumblr.com, hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ruining my own life and half-regretting it, half-flipping the bird. I’m hooked, I’m pulled in and I seriously can’t stop. Thank you for those who kudos and are supporting this madness-run story that I’m spending too much time on. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I wish everyone good luck on their finals!

Naturally, and Grantaire was starting to suspect this was a fact of life, _Javert knew everything_. Or he was just a persistent, looming specter whose one goal in life was to nitpick like a clucking hen poking its beak at everything.

Thus, the shouting match. Grantaire didn’t miss this adolescent stage in his life.

“You left the palace! You risked the chance of someone recognizing you and ruining _everything_ you foolish, reckless-”

Grantaire couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. This was a mashup of what every single adult in Grantaire’s life has ever said to him, spit flying everywhere and hitting his chest like bullets. Luckily, he’s been shot at so many times that it didn’t even hurt anymore. It helped that what the butler was saying was _complete and utter bullshit._

“First of all, I just want to say that is the _stupidest_ reasoning I’ve heard yet, gladiator.” Grantaire’s mind was kicking into high gear, whirling as arguments aligned themselves so rapidly that it drove other people cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

“The _real_ prince skedaddled to who the hell knows where to puff the magic dragon in case you forgot or hit your head recently, so you’re stuck with me. Even I know by now that him sticking around and braiding his golden hair in his high tower before meeting his jailor is the last thing he’d do. You just don’t want me to screw up and cause you trouble, which I’m _not_ b-t-w. Seriously, who do you think I am, _Scarecrow?_ Not the Batman villain, the one from Wizard of Oz.”

All sarcasm aside though, it was true. Even Grantaire, who never met his doppelganger, knew at least that much. He read some of the articles and wow, the guy knew how to party and cause mayhem in his wake even worse than Grantaire when he was at his most drunk. Hell, the prince running away before marriage was not surprising _at all_ the more he read about the guy.

It was... an unpleasant discovery.

“It doesn’t matter.” Javert boomed, a human nuclear bomb. Grantaire could practically hear Javert grinding his teeth to sawdust with barely held back frustration. “To gallivant around town and risk being exposed would make this entire charade pointless. It’s dangerous to toe the line.”

“I’m gonna end up tripping over a hundred lines anyway!” Grantaire snarled out, tugging ringlets at the back of his head in pure vexation. “And do you honestly think anyone is gonna take one good look at me and immediately think, _‘Oh! We’re all in a Shakespeare play and Cesario is actually Viola!’_ _I_ still can’t believe this is really happening! Besides, this is _tame_ compared to what I could _really_ do to copy your oh so great prince. I bet to never drink coffee again that this isn’t the first time he ran away and you had to cover it up, am I right?”

Javert remained stone-faced, but his silence spoke volumes. Grantaire sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he needed tylenol. Or a drink, _fuck_.

“Besides, even if people think I _am_ the prince, you can’t tell me him being in town is that strange, right?” he pointed out.

Quick as lightning, a twinge of _something_ flashed across Javert’s face, gone in a flash and leaving behind marble. A sinking sensation was starting to plummet in Grantaire’s stomach. He wasn’t going to like this, was he?

“The prince is not allowed outside under the King’s instructions.” Javert said stiffly. “The Queen died from illness when the prince was a child, and ever since then the king has been strict on him to never leave. The times the prince _did_ escape, he always left the country by bribing the staff to take him by plane or car however he can. They’ve all been fired of course.” Javert sighed out of his nose, the sound of a shrieking teapot in distress. “He can be... very persuasive.”

Grantaire’s mind flashed to nervous maids who avoided him at all costs. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the idea that Grantaire would flash his pearly whites at them and risk their jobs in the process.

Did the prince offer money? Sweet lies? Grantaire shuddered and decided resolutely he didn’t want to know.

“So who _does_ know the prince?” Grantaire pressed.

“The only civilians who’ve actually seen him are those with higher positions than most. The rest of the kingdom haven’t seen the prince since he was ten I believe.”

“Are you saying,” Grantaire said slowly, a timelined scrapbook taping itself into something extremely gothic and depressing being made in his mind. “The prince has basically been isolated from everyone, and he’s rebelling against his dad in the only way he knows how?”

Huh. That... explained a lot. Grantaire couldn’t help feel conflicted by this new piece of information. Guy was still a jerk but _hell_ , that was a raw deal. No wonder he was fucked up if the only real interactions he had was with people who had to follow his every order, or fuckheads who let him do whatever the hell he wanted outside of his gilded cage.

Come to think of it, he never actually read any newspapers regarding what shenanigans the prince got up to in Laleniel. It was always outside of the palace that he left a trail of chaos in his wake. Like a cry for attention from a tantruming child.

Forget the drink, he needed _Eponine_. Where the hell was no-nonsense reality in high heels when you needed it? Neglecting parents was hitting a little too close to home for comfort.

Grantaire sighed, suddenly feeling too old and out of place in his damaged twenty-one year old meatsuit.

“I’m not partying or announcing to people I’m the prince. I’m not even taking advantage of any of this, or did you not notice that?” He gestured tiredly at the grandeur surrounding them. “If what you say is true, would people seeing me in town honestly matter?” he scoffed, the sound bitter. “Would anyone _care?_ You can’t ruin an image if it’s already ruined.”

Grantaire swore for a second that the butler actually winced, but he was probably imagining things.

“Look,” Grantaire shook his head. “I learned the family trees, I practiced table etiquette even though I don’t see the point of it, and I’m going to be stuck here until I make a good impression to the princess. Which, by the way, should go as badly if the actual prince was here. So cut me some slack, damn it. I can’t possibly make things worse than it already is.”

Javert broke his composure when he raised one bushy eyebrow, Vulcan-screaming in Samuel L. Jackson’s voice, “Ya jinxed it now, motherfucker.”

 _Fuck._ He hated it when that happens.

“So look, could you stop channeling Alfred Pennyworth, bless his fictional soul, and just hold off the lectures about how perilous it was and _let it go?_ Nothing happened anyway so there’s no point. I get it, okay? So I-” and here Grantaire halted, cutting himself off. Because he could promise not to do it again, he probably should in all honesty. He could make all these points, say that there was no harm no foul in this one time, and not get in trouble.

The problem was, even though he said maybe, he knew himself. He was already bound to another promise.

Bahorel’s sincerity and boisterous laughter made warmth swell in his chest for the first time in forever. Hopeful eyes full of awe and appreciation for a doodle that was barely art imprinted his memories. Pathetic as it may be, he wanted to feel that again. Eponine was his best friend, but she was his _only_ friend. And like a greedy magpie who’s seen a glimmer of something shiny for the first time in its life, he wanted to reach out and take what he could.

He deserved a taste of hope, even if it was temporary.

So with all the impulsivity of Gavroche, god bless that kid, he blurted out, “So I’d like to make a deal with you. I’ll be out this Thursday night, and in return, I’ll be your perfect imperfect prince. I’ll be your Rapunzel, I swear.”

Just like the first time, he offered his hand to Javert. There were no wisecracks or leftover humor, the skin around his mouth taut with tension, a tint of anxiousness mixed with determination in the set of his gaze. He wasn’t going to back down, not when a spark has been lit.

Javert narrowed his eyes, seeing all this in the natural disaster before him, and Grantaire thought he imagined the grudging respect flash across the stout man’s features.

With mechanical precision of a wind-up toy soldier, Javert took the hand and shook it.

It completed the allusion of a prisoner on parole, allowed a one-time minor felony in return of good behavior.

* * *

 

Things passed by much more quickly after that.

Grantaire practically threw himself into the role he’s been given, an actor given a backstory and profile but without much context that could actually create a character. If he had been more of a writer than a painter, it would’ve irritated him endlessly. Thankfully, Grantaire was king when it came to improvising and breezing by.

“Waste of space.” Teachers used to deride in high school. “Fucked up druggie.” Kids hollered in the hallways.

Grantaire, with his crooked nose and uneven smirks, would shoot back, “Then I guess you’re just stupid enough to yell at the void. Or the Veil. I think I can pull off that mystery vibe.” Or even. “John Bender is my spirit animal, so fuck you.”

Mind you, he never actually did do drugs, but people were people so to hell with them.

At least it fashioned his tongue into a thorny shield.

He told Eponine about the arrangement with Javert and just like he thought, she was completely exasperated but not surprised at all by the idea of him sneaking out. She muttered typical when he told her the prince’s sob story and went quiet when he told her about Bahorel and the chance meeting. He could tell it wasn’t an ominous pause, but a thoughtful one. The kind where she was weighing whether or not to be super cautious or blunt as a sledgehammer. There was no middle ground with that woman.

It was the former this time.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” was her first words, careful as someone stacking up jenga blocks. She knew better than anyone how truly fragile he was. They’ve watched each other’s backs for so long, that the possibility of being friends with other people was actually kind of weird and frightening. There was always this unspoken ‘us’ verses ‘them’ mentality that somehow became instilled in their very DNA makeup.

“I’m just completing a transaction of goods, I don’t like owing people anything.” He half-lied, trying to sound flippant. They both knew he was talking bullshit. He couldn’t remember the last time he honestly tried to be civil with other people. Caring outside his realm of comfort was too much effort.

“If any one of them are jerks to you, I’ll make their lives hell.” Eponine threatened, dead serious.

Grantaire couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah? How?”

“I know a guy.”

She probably did. It was a bit worrisome.

“Point taken.” Grantaire smiled a little, a knot loosening in his chest. “It’ll be fine Ep. I’ll tell you if things go to shit. Which, knowing my luck, it will.”

“How comforting.” She drawled out, their usual dynamics once again restored.

Thursday arrived abruptly with all the unexpectedness of prima donna Carlotta croaking on stage. The phantom was here, ready to sweep him off his feet to the ball. The meet up with Bahorel was gonna be a onetime thing anyway since the princess – Cosette, he was told – was only visiting for a few days, sort of like testing the waters to see if Grantaire was a predatory alligator.

According to the maids, who he was slowly winning over with common decency – the prince was a _dick_ – King Valjean was incredibly protective of her. From how they described him, Grantaire was under the impression the king was a mix of a saint with the physique of a lumberjack. He mentally pictured him as Van Helsing, crossbow and all. He didn’t know why his mind worked the way it did.

He didn’t look up pictures of Cosette cause truthfully, he would feel like a creep if he did. Bad enough someone looked up his entire life story and dragged him into this position, he didn’t really want to do that to someone else.

He admittedly spent way too much time trying to pick out a suitable outfit that night. He never joined any academic clubs or anything that didn’t require a uniform set of appropriate clothes. The fencing and boxing clubs he periodically attended had him wearing pads or protective gear for the physical activity, workout clothes underneath. As for art, well, he picked the most worn out shirt he had and walked into the studio fully prepared for paint/marker stains and graphite dusted arms and hands.

Actually, he was a bit more bulky than his absent twin who had a more thinner and well-proportioned figure judging by the man’s closet. It always felt a little tight when Grantaire was forced to wear the man’s clothes.

In the end, he dutifully wore the beanie and a thick jacket to fight off the cooling weather. He almost wore his woolen scarf out of paranoia of being identified but decided it might be a bit much. Besides, one of the tutors who critically judged his sense of fashion once warned him, “You may look exactly like him but there are subtle enough differences that people might get suspicious. Perception is everything.”

Grantaire hoped it was going to work in his favor.

He didn’t have to reenact Mission Impossible this time, passing by Javert who was pointedly not looking at him as he strode toward the back door. Grantaire was grateful the man was being even remotely cordial about the whole ordeal.

However, it didn’t stop Grantaire from whirling on his heels and give a deep bow, arm sweeping in Javert’s direction who was still refusing to look at him.

 _“So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu!”_ he singsonged before bolting outside to get away from the firing line. He wasn’t suicidal damn it.

Last time he hit the streets, he had been mindlessly drifting around without a clear destination in mind. Finding the bar had simply been compulsive, insane luck leading him to a baffling bartender far nicer than anyone Grantaire has the fortune of meeting.

This time he asked around, keeping his head low and trying not to gain any attention. A futile attempt with how many people kept shooting curious looks at the stranger that ‘happened’ to blow into town.

Fuck, he better not be stuck with that label.

After awkwardly asking around without looking anyone in the eye, he finally found the place. To which he went completely still and simply stared at the building in front of him. He distantly wondered if this was what Harry Potter felt like when looking at the Weasley Burrow for the first time.

The Les Amis café was in a crooked, out of the way alley that was instantly noticeable. Bricked up homey walls, a worn down sign tacked on, and soft music drifting in the air. It was so bright and brimming with life, pulling people in and making them feel right at home. He’s never seen anything like it.

It was, to put it in one word, _wonderful_.

Shaking his head to clear the messy cobs of poetry, he strode in. It was warmer than he expected and he instantly was thankful that he left the scarf behind. It would’ve been absolutely stifling if he did.

Glancing around, he was slowly starting to fall more in love with the place, the walls tacky and overlaid with pictures of 1960’s Batman and Hungarian movie posters of Darth Vader whose helmet looked like a nefarious bundt cake pan. The smell of coffee that shouldn’t be so poignant late in the night was even better. It was a lot more amusing to think of people suffering from college while he was scott free from the stress this time.

_“Grantaire!”_

Abruptly, there were arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind him, Bahorel pouncing on him with a giant whoop of excitement. Instinctively and with a lot of practice from Gavroche’s ‘surprise’ attacks – damn that kid’s ninja sneakiness – Grantaire grasped the man’s thighs and was suddenly piggy backing the redhead. Even though the guy was ridiculously huge and heavy, Grantaire couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed and merely rolled his eyes and looked to the side to grin back up close.

“Hey there Daphne.” Grantaire smirked, shuffling his shoulders a bit so Bahorel could hang on better. Grantaire was the Empire State Building to Bahorel’s King Kong. “What’s shaking?”

“Nothing, everything’s groovy now that you’re here.” Bahorel shot back, straight-faced and unashamed.

 _Unbelievable_.

“Jesus.” Grantaire huffed out a disbelieving laugh. Even with the colossal weight on his back, he never felt so light. “Where the hell have you been all my life?”

“In a bar.” Bahorel cheekily answered, grin widening when Grantaire laughed. “I’m glad you came! Really, you’re like a movie character. Coming in and out, making an impression on me and changing me forever. Can you sing? Are we in the sets of La La Land?"

Grantaire groaned, lolling his head forward and exaggeratedly breathing out a depressed sigh. “And have our love affair come to an end with me playing jazz for the rest of my life? No thanks.”

“Why can’t you be Mia?” Bahorel asked curiously. Grantaire was struck by how ridiculous this conversation was, but kept playing along.

“Well, for one thing, I can’t pull off the redhead look.” He waggled his eyebrows to Bahorel who pretended to look off into the distance, red hair shining in the light. Grantaire snickered before continuing. “Another is that I’ve never really dated anyone before, so the subplot of Mia getting hitched to someone else won’t work. Besides, I’ve been told I’m married to my work.”

Grantaire wryly thought back to the many times Eponine tried to set him up on dates, a string of men and women drifting in and out of his sophomore year like clockwork. Fed up, Grantaire straight up told her he just wasn’t interested in relationships, and that he doubted anyone would like him anyway so it’s a waste of time. He had his art, he had school, he had her and Gavroche, what more could he possibly want?

He ignored the fact that when he was a kid, he always longed for someone to love him like that. He didn’t care much for sex or the appeal of it, but that fierce feeling in his gut he felt for Eponine and Gavroche that made him willing to do anything to make them happy was something he understood. He sometimes wondered whether anything could feel stronger than that and the possibility made him want to deny it altogether. Anything that could make him care more than the most important people in his life just wasn’t worth it.

For some reason, Bahorel burst out laughing to the point where he was nearly crying. Seeing Grantaire’s befuddled look, he shook his head and smiled deviously.

“Oh man, now you _have_ to meet Enjolras. This is gonna be _fantastic.”_ He jerked his head up to where the stairs were. “The group is upstairs by the way. They’re really excited to meet you.”

Grantaire felt a shock of nervousness shoot his heart. Needing a distraction, Grantaire winked at Bahorel and said, “I bet you ten euro I can carry you up there.”

Bahorel’s delighted yell of, _“Run Forest, run!”_ just made Grantaire’s day. Nothing could kill this moment. Not even the multiple stink-eyes or judgmental glares they received for the entire spectacle as Grantaire bolted toward the stairs. He couldn’t even begin to care what Bahorel’s friends would think once they reached the top.

Screw dignity and first impressions. He hasn’t had this much fun in _ages_.

Grantaire was skipping steps, nearly leaping upwards like a waddling duckling trying to fly for the first time. He came dangerously close to tipping over a few times but always found his balance. All those sport activities were definitely helping him at the moment. And all the while, Bahorel held on and simply trusted Grantaire to not let him fall.

It was humbling and slightly terrifying how much the man seemed to trust Grantaire already.

They nearly hurled themselves forward when they reached the top, Grantaire stumbling in the room laughing and wheezing while Bahorel cheered with all the gusto of a football fan.

“I win.” Grantaire managed to gasp out as Bahorel slid off ungracefully. “Fuck, what do you _eat?”_

Grantaire swore someone coughed to hide their laughter, but he couldn’t be too sure.

God, his _back_. Grantaire stretched, leaning backward to hear it crack satisfyingly. Rolling his shoulders, he looked around to find that literally everyone in the room was outright staring at him.

They were a colorful bunch, he gave them that. Someone in a floral dress and rocking the look was sitting next to a bald, dark skinned guy whose expression was far too gleeful. And leaning on his shoulder was an Asian man wearing a prim sweater and neon orange socks that had Grantaire itching for a paintbrush to get the shade right. Fuck, they were gonna be on his wish list this year, _he wanted them._

On the other side, bouncy dreadlocks and an uplifting grin dazzled him while his friend seated next to him simply smiled with amusement, wire old man glasses reflecting the light. And the next guy-

Grantaire felt his eyes widen, assaulted by what could only be a visage of something out of this world. If Grantaire believed in God, he’d say the man sitting in front of him was the careful architecture of god’s image in human flesh. Not even Jesus looked that good, hot _damn_.

Blond hair, blue eyes, classic coloring that Grantaire has seen a thousand times before, yet never this vividly where it felt like a punch in the gut and _Grantaire has to paint this guy,_ _holy fuck._

This was not even a question, or option. It’s a do or die. Shit, he never regretted leaving his drawing supplies behind more than he has in his entire life. Seriously, was he a vampire? Does he sparkle in the sun? Fuckity _fuck_ , Grantaire might actually believe it if someone told him right now.

He shook his head, mentally slapping himself to get a fucking grip, _Christ_ , and determinedly stared forward only to blink when he was finally able to concentrate enough to pay attention to the insanely beautiful man’s expression.

A maelstrom of emotions warped the man’s face into something foreboding. Shock, anger, confusion, and most importantly, _recognition_.

_Shit._

He could almost hear Javert prissily telling him, “I told you so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, please comment and kudos on the way out. And check out my tumblr page aerialflight.tumblr.com, hope you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, this came all at once when I didn’t expect it to. Thank you so much for the support and for waiting so patiently. Also, I loved the comments and encouragement you guys gave, seriously. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Grantaire, who used sarcasm and wolfish grins out of spite to project the notion everyone could go fuck themselves, felt his mouth move without permission and damning him on the spot.

“Hey big, blond, and beautiful. When is your musical number going to break out? Cause I’d dance your tune any day.”

_Ah, fuck._

Clearly the angel who dropped from heaven was the warrior type, cause the angry scowl he psychically tried to scorch Grantaire with defined the phrase 'righteous fury' like nothing else.

Grantaire was fine with having his last night as a free man be ruined by this god who walked among men, bracing himself to be exposed in front of all these strangers in the room. Getting ready to see Bahorel’s face fall at the realization that his new friend was a spoiled prince, or a lying, desperate man who’d do anything for a bit of cash. Neither painted Grantaire in a good light, and Grantaire knew it.

The jig was up and there was nothing he could do about it-

The blond clenched his jaw and snapped his neck away from him with calculative rigidness one would see in marching soldiers. He seemed to vibrate under what Grantaire belatedly noticed was a noticeable red jacket that painted him with the blood of his enemies.

“Everyone take their seats.” The blond’s crisp, baritone voice sent a shiver down Grantaire’s spine. The steel and fire tempered in that tongue made him straighten where he stood, an almost impossible task that Eponine for years had given up trying to accomplish. His body’s reaction was so ridiculous that Grantaire forcibly slouched the next second, slightly irked he was this shook by someone he’s only just met.

Again, words were escaping out of his traitorous mouth and Grantaire was starting to irrationally dislike the man on principle for affecting him this much.

“Now that’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” since there was nothing he could do except roll with it by this point, Grantaire preformed a shit-eating smirk just waiting to be punched right off. He gestured to the rest of the room, who was watching with rapt attention. “I don’t even know anyone’s names here. And if you don’t, I’m just going to nickname everyone. Bahorel can attest to that.”

“You bet I can, da Vinci.” The older man crowed, right on beat. Grantaire absolutely refused to blush at the inappropriately placed faith the man had in him, and razed on.

“Since I’m a gentleman and know my manners,” at this, an undignified snort escaped out of the blond that Grantaire refused to acknowledge. Wire glasses was now shooting questioning looks at the blond, which Grantaire again intentionally ignored. “I’ll do it first. Name’s Grantaire. Bahorel invited me, and it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

He gave an exaggerated bow and was met with a round of applause that Grantaire tried not to grin too hard about. They were just being friendly, no big deal.

They continued to be friendly as all of them, one by one, began to introduce themselves. Wire glasses was Combeferre and the cheerful one with dreadlocks was Courfeyrac. The trio who had all been draped over each other were Jehan, Bossuet, and Joly. The three practically dragged Grantaire into a corner, all of them laughing and asking a million questions about France and what it offered.

The blond – who Joly revealed to be named Enjolras – was practically stormy with irritation until Combeferre told him it was fine to start a little late for once in their normal activities. And that someone named Marius hasn’t arrived yet anyways, so they might as well wait on him.

Grantaire discretely listened to the whole conversation play out behind him, shoulders still tense at the idea Enjolras will reveal the charade Grantaire was playing and puzzled as to why the blond was seemingly letting it go. He certainly didn’t look the type.

Mentally, Grantaire pushed it aside enough to ask Joly where Grantaire could get those socks, causing the man to light up with genuine joy, as it turned out he knitted them himself. The sheer enthusiasm the man ranted about fabrics had Grantaire listening with a smile, so unused to such a bright and chatty attitude. In comparison, Eponine was the grinning vampire hunter who viciously tore down monsters under the moonlight. Terrifying, protective, and completely badass.

Besides, Grantaire could completely empathize the feeling of accomplishment one feels when they’re own work or creation was being complimented. Nothing drove artists and future dreamers to be better than that.

“Joly, you’re getting off-topic again.” Jehan commented, Bossuet chuckling beside the two with twinkling stars in his eyes.

Joly flushed madly and Jehan shot a warm smile in Grantaire’s direction that could melt butter on bread.

“He gets very excited over his projects. Sorry you had to endure all that.” Jehan said lightheartedly.

“You kidding?” Grantaire gave a crooked smile and shook his head. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. Trust me, you’d know if I was bored. I’m a chronic insomniac so anytime I’m feeling tired or sleepy, I take it when I can.”

Instantly, a concerned frown took over Jehan’s kind features, the other two mirroring their expression with eerie synchronization. Grantaire immediately felt guilty for slipping up and berated himself for killing the mood. He had felt so comfortable that somehow it had slipped out without him meaning to. He didn’t want them pitying him the whole night or dragging them into his problems, so Grantaire turned around and waved at Bahorel for attention.

“Bahorel!” he called out, interrupting whatever the man was talking about with Courfeyrac and silently apologizing to the man for using him like this. “Jessica Rabbit! I have a present for you, my darling!”

Bahorel clutched his chest and literally twirled to where Grantaire was sitting, around and around he spun until he reached the table and slumped against it with one hip jutted to the side in a sexy pose. Grantaire burst out snickering seeing that and obligingly grabbed one hand and kissed it with jubilant fanfare.

“Oh, how wonderful!” Bahorel breathed, fluttering his eyelashes with the delicateness of a butterfly fluttering its wings. “What is it, honeybunch?”

Bossuet was practically falling off his chair by this point, banging on the table with a fist as he wheezed.

Grantaire congratulated himself at the fact he successfully diverted any awkward conversations, and managed to hold his composure long enough to carefully pull out the drawing he’s been working on for days.

“For you.” He said simply, all humor leaving him as his nerves began to frazzle at the seams. Maybe he should’ve given this to the man in private, where no one was watching. Maybe this was a mistake, and the other drawing Grantaire called scrap really _was_ better than what he was offering now. Maybe this’ll all blow up in his face.

Bahorel took it and opened it up as if it was fragile as glass, slowly unveiling it and leaving Grantaire simultaneously frozen in his chair and ready to bolt.

It only grew worse when the man seemed to still in place when finally seeing it, face intent, before looking up and shooting Grantaire an unreadable look.

“Whoever convinced you that you’re not a good artist,” the man said slowly, “obviously didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.”

Grantaire realized in that exact moment he had stopped breathing at some point and he finally let out a breath, whole body shaking as he released some tension at the action. Jehan seemed to have caught on to his anxiousness and gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

“May I see?” Jehan said quietly. Grantaire nodded and Bahorel handed the paper over.

It was simple really. Grantaire had sketched out the picture he took when arriving into the kingdom, trying to capture that moment of awe he felt at seeing something one only read about in fairy tales or old history books with beautiful illustrations Grantaire could never match up to. That surreal feeling of lightness, with the sun shining down and the castle the whitest structure on the page in comparison to the other houses and stores below it, all huddled together in warm community Grantaire had a glimpse of seeing when wandering around. It made the whole drawing radiate with warmth, touchable and alive.

“Wow.” Bossuet muttered, looking almost touched. Joly similarly looked the same. It was an outsider’s point of view, Grantaire’s point of view. To have their own home be seen with newer eyes must mean something to them. Grantaire hoped he did it justice. He had been very careful to shade it right to give it the tone he was aiming for.

“You drew this?” a voice questioned incredulously.

Grantaire startled and glanced back, seeing Enjolras stare at the drawing with dubious disbelief. Combeferre and Courfeyrac was right behind him, trading worried and confused looks with each other and Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to care.

A flare of irritation made Grantaire bristle where he sat, a biting grin shaping his face into something mocking. He just _had it_ with people doubting him. For once, he wanted to enjoy a moment where he wasn’t doubting himself, where people were openly combatting against his lack of self-worth.

Just today, he wanted to feel _good_ about himself.

“Is it that surprising?” he said a tad too snappishly.

Enjolras furrowed his brows, looking puzzled for a split second until something like understanding struck his face. Dread sank deep in Grantaire’s chest, everything suddenly hitting him all at once as he remembered that the prince probably didn’t have an interest in art. Grantaire was probably shattering his cover into a million pieces with this one, innocent piece of paper.

Fuck, _fuck_. Why did he always screw things up?

Before Grantaire could begin to really panic, the room slowly getting smaller and smaller as it closed around him on all sides, Enjolras demanded, “Who drew that for you?”

“Enjolras, _what the hell?”_ Courfeyrac hissed, sounding taken aback.

Grantaire’s thought process crashed into each other like Gavroche’s Thomas the Tank Engine trains on wooden tracks.

“What?” he said blankly, unable to process what he was hearing.

The blond faltered only for a moment at his lackluster response before sighing harshly as if Grantaire was making things difficult on purpose for him.

“You did not draw this.” Enjolras said confidently, as if stating an undeniable fact in a courtroom full of idiots.

Grantaire was underwater, his ears muffled and clogged as rage coursed through his body at the blond’s very audacity to dismiss Grantaire like this. Grantaire didn't know _what_ Enjolras’s problem was with the prince, or if it was just Grantaire acting as himself for some reason he didn't like, or if Enjolras was just naturally a _dick_ , but he wasn’t going to sit here and take this.

Eponine has been telling him for years to not be put down by idiots and jerks, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

Without a word, Grantaire snatched the drawing and turned it over to a blank back. Grantaire acknowledged he owed a lot of apologies to Bahorel for having to deal with Grantaire’s bullshit in the short time they’ve known each other.

“Anyone got a pen or pencil?” he asked quietly, tone stone cold. He stared down Enjolras’s wide-eyed look as Combeferre silently passed him an ink pen while shooting Enjolras a piercing, hard stare.

Definitely a bird, maybe an owl, that Combeferre. Their beaks were fucking _terrifying_.

Grantaire got to work quickly. It didn’t have to be that elaborate for his point to be made. His strokes were confident and while the ink was a bit too thick, Grantaire didn’t mind. He worked with worse.

The tension in the room seemed to simmer as he drew, cooking in anticipation for him to finish. Grantaire was in his element, the pressure bouncing off of him because he knew, one hundred percent, he was in the right this time. And nothing was more confident-boosting than the fact he knew he was going to win no matter what.

Just as he predicted, the first puff of laughter escaped out of Bahorel first, and Grantaire felt himself begin to grin at the sound as he continued. As it became clear what he was exactly drawing, people started to crack up. Grantaire would bet his own college savings that Enjolras was turning red in an effort to not react.

Grantaire detailed the little curls a bit more before decisively capping the pen, looking up to shoot a wicked smirk in Enjolras’s direction. He turned the paper upside down for Enjolras and folded his arms together on the table before leaning in, eyes lit with defiance.

“Well?” Grantaire drawled out, wiggling his thick eyebrows. “Doesn’t it match your likeness, Your Highness?”

Right on the page was a slightly cartoonish version of Enjolras, sitting on a bejeweled throne with a crown on his head. He looked uncharacteristically cocky in a way that Grantaire has seen a million times on every student or teacher who’s ever looked down on him. The golden staff that was pointing at the sky mocked the pose one sees in revolutionaries holding flags of freedom. All in all, Grantaire was very pleased how it turned out. He was almost tempted to submit it as a satirical piece in one of his art classes later, but that might be taking things a bit too far. He wasn’t cruel enough to do that.

Besides, the other drawing on the back was still Bahorel’s, so he had no right to do that anyway.

Grantaire knew he got his point across though. The style, even cartoonish, was recognizably _his_. Bahorel would be able to vouch for him with the Gavroche drawing if Enjolras was stupid enough to claim drawing a human being was different from drawing landscapes or buildings.

Basically, Grantaire proved himself right and made Enjolras look like a complete and utter _prick_.

Enjolras opened his mouth, probably to say something that would make Grantaire give in to the urge to punch him, when the door suddenly burst open to reveal the most gangly human being Grantaire’s ever seen grace the earth. The gelled hair, windswept looking man mimicked an eight legged spider with none of the insect’s killer grace as he dropped his things and struggled to get out of his brown trench coat. All the while he was babbling a mile a minute, not having noticed Grantaire at all.

“Sorry I’m late! One of the professors needed help carrying some papers, and then one of the students kept asking if I could tutor them, but that doesn’t really make sense. Aliya is the doing perfectly well judging by her scores, and she was acting strange so I asked if she was sick. Then Mrs. Archer from the bakery wanted me to taste something, I don’t know what, it tasted like cinna…mon…” he trailed off, finally seeming to realize something wasn’t right.

Taking this as his queue, Grantaire stood up. Looking face to face with Enjolras, he tried not to show how startled he was by the blond’s height. It was annoying that Grantaire couldn’t beat him even in _this_ , let alone looks. Some people just had everything, the _bastard_.

“While it really was nice to meet you all,” Grantaire made sure to smile plastically in Enjolras’s direction, just to make sure he knew it _did_ _not_ _include_ _him_. “I don’t want to disrupt your meeting.”

“You won’t be.” Combeferre stepped up, eyes flickering to Enjolras who was looking hard at the floor. “And an outside opinion on the kingdom could be a good idea-”

“He won’t be any help.” Enjolras cut off abruptly, looking up to fix Grantaire a baleful look. “And he’s not interested, aren’t you?”

The blond said this like a challenge, daring to contradict him on this point. Grantaire closed his eyes briefly before opening them to give a crinkling smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re right.” Enjolras blinked at the admission. “I’m not interested in whatever it is _you_ do.”

He emphasized it, capitalized it, made sure to let the blond know that this was on him. Whatever inkling of interest Grantaire even had a little of has disappeared by this point. The people here may be nice, funny, and warm in a way that Grantaire was already tempted to stay for, but no. Not if it included Enjolras. He’s had enough of it tonight.

Grantaire turned around, his back to Enjolras, to pat Bahorel on the shoulder and squeeze it in apology.

“Thanks for inviting me to come.” He managed a genuine, crooked smile that glinted a bit of teeth. “I really did have a great time.”

And without another word, Grantaire left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, please comment and kudos on the way out. And check out my tumblr page aerialflight.tumblr.com, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
